


just follow my smile

by psikeval



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-30 08:21:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3929758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psikeval/pseuds/psikeval
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke decides to pass himself off as Bran's lover at a party.</p><p>It goes about as well as you'd expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	just follow my smile

**Author's Note:**

  * For [canistakahari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Просто следуй за моей улыбкой](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8556157) by [Izzy_Grinch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izzy_Grinch/pseuds/Izzy_Grinch)



> For [Helen](http://canistakahari.tumblr.com/), who is great and should receive both credit and blame. Also, though none of this deserves to be taken seriously, mild warnings for Hawke being a manipulative little shit (as the premise most likely implies), just in case.

It’s a very fancy party.

There’s probably more nuance to it than that, or is meant to be, but Hawke has a good eye for detail and all he sees is a lot of fancy people in fancy clothes, eating oddly small portions of fancy food. The wine going around is very nice, and so too is the brandy. So that’s something.

He needs a few good drinks, if he’s going to survive hours of this. Mother made him groom his _beard_ , for the Maker’s sake—or the sake of some third cousin, twice removed, so happy to see them, whatever. There are pointy bits, on purpose, instead of just its usual sort of… mess.

Pointy bits on his beard, and not the cousin. At least, as far as Hawke is aware.

(Bethany would love it all if she were here, he just knows it. The cakes and fine cheeses, the ridiculous hairstyles and breeches that should have been burnt years ago — he’d buy her the prettiest dress in the Free Marches and let her tease him for his terrible dancing, and he wouldn’t wait months for a single short letter, addressed to Mother and not to him.)

“Right, then!” he says to Mother, with cheer so forced his face feels almost numb at first, before he can settle into the act. “I think that’s all the most important families covered. When I forget their names I’ll be sure to make a very charming apology.”

“Of course you will.” She reaches up and touches his cheek, just briefly, with a sad soft smile, always seeing through his pretending just like she saw through Father’s.

Hawke drains his glass of brandy perhaps more quickly than is proper, drops it on a passing tray and scans the crowd for anything to catch his attention.

Red hair. It’ll do.

“Who’s that over there?” He points with his entire arm, remembers that quick talk about etiquette, and tries to turn it into a stretch. _All those vital stagnant noble duties; must keep limber while I snack_. His shirt is annoyingly tight around the shoulders. “The grumpy-looking redhead.”

Mother, more well-bred than he could ever hope to be, casts a discreet glance in that direction while sipping her wine. “Ah,” she says rather coolly. “Seneschal Bran. In service to the viscount.”

“Do we hate him?”

“Oh, no!” She pats Hawke’s arm. “He just got a bit short with me, is all, when I kept petitioning to restore the estate. But I’m sure he had plenty of other things to be worrying about.”

Better and better. “Hmm. Here with family?”

“I don’t think so. I can’t imagine… no, that’s petty of me. But I believe he’s unattached. Why—”

“Just thought he might like to have a little chat, is all.”

“Garrett,” says Mother warningly.

“ _Mother_ ,” he replies in the same tone, grins and is gone.

When he starts across the room, Hawke isn’t quite sure what tack he’ll be taking, but in the course of walking he decides that he’s seen worse specimens than Seneschal Bran, and between the brandy and boredom he finds himself in the mood to put on a show.

And so:

“There you are, love!” he says heartily when he arrives, placing a kiss at Bran’s temple and slipping one arm around his waist, the better to feel his spine stiffen. “I’ve been looking everywhere.”

“I’m sorry, who—”

“—delayed me? Everyone I came across; it’s been that sort of day. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

Bran’s lips thin to the point of invisibility, eyes desperately searching Hawke’s face as if for some clue to what’s happening. “Yes,” he says uncertainly. “Quite.”

“Why, Seneschal,” says one of the noblewomen, smiling, “I had no idea you were…”

The silence trailing after could lend itself too easily to Bran simply saying _I’m not_ — or shouting it, if the rigid, shocked lines of his body are any indication — so Hawke feels obligated to interrupt again, squeezing Bran’s waist for effect. “Keeping me a secret? Shame on you.”

“I don’t know what I was thinking,” says Bran, biting off every word in his carefully level voice.

“He can be so adorably shy,” Hawke sighs to his audience. “He worries that since my family—the Amells, yes, have you met my mother?—anyhow, we’ve only recently had our status restored by the viscount, and Bran, my darling,” (it’s possible Bran actually _snarls_ at that) “is worried it might smack of my family being done unwarranted favors, were our love known.”

He’s quite proud of the wistful, resigned martyr’s face he makes just then.

“But who could think such a thing!” says the second lady, and she looks so outraged by their imaginary plight that Hawke finds himself quite liking her, despite his urge to laugh. “The Amells are an old and well-respected family! We should all be glad to see their fortunes restored.”

“Ah, yes,” Bran forces out, somehow, past the painful-looking clench of his jaw. “You’ve shown me the error of my thinking, Lady Viliard. Now if you’ll excuse us for a moment.”

He looks as if he’d very much like to drag Hawke away by the ear, but settles for walking, sedately, to an empty spot in the room, and turning on his heel abruptly enough to dislodge Hawke’s arm from his waist. Up close and facing him, Bran isn’t all that much to look at. He’s a few inches shorter than Hawke, and has dull brown eyes full of murder.

“Who in blazes are you?” he hisses, a red flush rising steadily up his neck.

“Garrett Hawke,” says Hawke, very helpfully, because he is a helpful person. “Oh, they’re looking again.”

“Who’s—”

Bran is interrupted by Hawke placing a very chaste and proper kiss on his lips, the sort of thing only a revered mother might object to. “Those women from before,” he explains brightly to Bran, who looks rather like a person does after being punched in the head by Aveline. “Don’t know their names. Must keep up appearances, mustn’t we?”

“Appearance of _what_? I don’t have anything to—”

“Bran!” Hawke gasps, affecting a wounded expression. With every interruption, Bran looks increasingly ready to explode. It’s a more entertaining pastime than one might think. “Am I so easily discarded? Does everything between us mean so little?”

“Shut _up_!” His hand swings up toward Hawke’s face (too broad a motion, telegraphed by the twitch of his shoulder; more than enough warning for Hawke to ignore his reflexes and consciously refuse to block it). There’s every chance Bran meant to hit him, or strangle him, or something similarly violent, but the beauty of it is, he’s far too tightly-wound for that. He can’t forget their audience.

Instead, his hand curls harmlessly on the side of Hawke’s neck, the excess force only serving to drag him closer to Bran. From the outside, this must look quite intimate by now.

Hawke does his best to gaze dreamily into Bran’s eyes. As eyes go, they are not particularly beautiful or compelling, but one works with what one has. “I knew you’d come around.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Fun, mostly. You were also rude to my mother once, and I really don’t like that in a person.”

Bran narrows his eyes, and one of his fingers taps quickly against Hawke’s neck as he tries to think. “Your…”

“Seneschal! Sorry to interrupt,” says a man who very clearly isn’t sorry at all, his eyes alight at the prospect of gossip, gaze darting hungrily between Bran and Hawke. “Might I ask…?”

“Garrett Hawke, serah,” Hawke supplies cheerfully, shaking the man’s hand. “Of the Amells, so recently restored to our Hightown estate.”

“Of course, of course! A fine family indeed. Hardly any wonder you’ve caught the eye of our seneschal, eh?”

“I know _I_ find it hard to believe,” Bran replies through gritted teeth.

“Have you met my wife, Lady Pentham, serah?”

“I haven’t!” says Hawke, convincingly aghast. “And I must.”

The Pentham family is lovely, which is to say they’re the sort of well-meaning effusive people who’ve made a point of befriending all of Hightown, and under their guidance Hawke and Bran are passed between groups at the party without a moment’s rest.

Much is made of the Amells in general, without mention of layabout sons gambling away the family fortune, or daughters eloping with dog lord apostates—no, somehow all that is talked around entirely. Hawke thinks he could learn a few things about evasion from these people, if he cared to.

Nobody mentions the seneschal much, aside from the intrigue of his association with Hawke; nor does Bran volunteer a great deal in their conversations. Instead he stands quite still beneath Hawke’s arm, answers questions with brusque indifference and generally gives no indication of why a man like him would choose a life of public service. Less than an hour of trying to make nice, and he’s already fraying around the edges.

His hair looks like it might have once been combed neat but refused to stay that way for longer than an hour. Hawke can sympathize with that, but he cannot, as a rule, resist temptation, so while the de Launcets are being Orlesian at them he starts playing with Bran’s hair, tugging at unruly bits, sweeping it this way and that with his fingers.

“Keep it up, and you’ll lose that hand,” Bran informs him through teeth bared in a smile, as the de Launcets give way to the Canonachs and Harrimans.

“Oh? I know some people who do that, I could introduce you.”

“Charming to know we can elevate any Lowtown thug with the right bloodline.”

“ _Fereldan_ Lowtown thug, if you please,” says Hawke, which is how he ends up speaking at length, to an ever-growing audience, about the merits of mabari hounds. The average Marcher, he’s found, only hates Fereldans in a general sense, without any personal complaints in mind, besides that a distasteful number had the nerve to come to the Free Marches and be poor.

Besides, who could hate dogs? Certainly no one Hawke wants to know about.

“Inseparable, really. She followed me everywhere. Or, well, sometimes I had to carry her. She was very small and round. But they don’t stay that way, of course. Dog came with me to the fighting at Ostagar, and she’s saved my life a dozen times.”

“Dog?” repeats a boy who only abandoned the industrious task of mashing different foods together in a wine glass when he heard there was talk of war dogs. “You just call her Dog?”

Hawke shrugs. “Well, it was either that or…” ( _‘or maybe Carver,’ he’d said, mock-thoughtful, before Carver ran at him, and Garrett had a hell of a time dodging his hands while yelling ‘Dog! Her name is Dog!’ — Bethany was laughing and no help at all._ ) “…or Cat,” he finishes instead, nodding, “and all things considered, I thought Dog suited her more.”

For a brief, cynical moment, he thinks that draws quite a bit more laughter than it deserves; then he reminds himself it’s what he’s been aiming for, reward for a performance well done. Hawke aims a beneficent smile at the crowd and draws Bran a little closer, a solid angry warmth at his side. “We’ve had our disagreements about her, I’m afraid.”

“Do you not like dogs, Seneschal?” asks one of the Canonach sisters.

“I hadn’t put much thought into the matter,” says Bran, his glare toward Hawke adding _until this idiot grabbed hold of me_. “But I’m not used to dogs, and I don’t like mess.”

“Both of which, sadly, I provide to excess.” He could swear Bran’s mouth twitches, either at the sentiment or the masterfully concocted rhyme, and Hawke places an impulsive kiss on his forehead; someone quietly coos. Bran is certainly not smiling now, if ever he meant to.

A brief distraction arrives in the form of little fancy cakes, of which their host is apparently very proud. While others busy themselves in passing about desserts, Bran scrubs at his forehead as if he’s been spit on, or his skin made canvas for the lewd artwork of a pirate while he slept.

(That was a fun day, watching Sebastian figure out why people kept staring at his jaw.)

“I’ve had enough of this,” says Bran, voice kept carefully low. “I’m leaving.”

Hawke hums quiet dissent. “I wish you wouldn’t. You see, I’ve accumulated these coin purses.”

“You—” Bran’s eyes all but fly from his head, and he tries to shove Hawke’s hands down before anyone sees — not that Hawke is particularly worried about that. People, in his experience, don’t notice much, especially when their attention is on the romantic gossip he’s so generously provided. He does, however, use the opportunity to catch Bran’s wrists and tug him close.

“What? I just wanted to see if I could,” he murmurs against Bran’s ear. Gratifying, to feel the little shiver it provokes. “All those fancy jackets and pockets in odd places.”

“Yes, of course that would drive a man to steal.”

“I’m honing my talents, darling. Bettering myself. I thought you’d be proud.” Lest the performance be overdone, Hawke links their arms once more and starts walking around the periphery of the room. He drops one coin purse on a table of untouched pastries, and one next to a hideous potted plant. He is not an unreasonable man.

Bran lasts a whole quarter-turn around the room before he can’t contain himself any longer, turns to stare at Hawke again like he’s every torment of the Void made flesh. “How can you do this?”

“Um. Morally speaking, or—”

“Yes,” he snaps, “I’m asking for a lecture on morals from the man who entertains himself by telling lies and pickpocketing at parties. I _mean_ , how do you put on this act. It’s not as if you like me.”

Hawke shrugs. “Not much, no. Though to be fair, I’ve only just met you.”

“Exactly! So how…” He trails off as Hawke directs them into a little alcove, its decorative drapes hiding them from anyone’s sight. “Maker above, _now what?_ ”

“Think of it as telling a story. Weaving a rich tapestry of young and troubled romance, its current thread being lovers kissing in dark corners.” To helpfully illustrate the point, Hawke leans in and brushes his lips over Bran’s, is growled at and then dragged in by his surcoat while Bran bites at his mouth, which suits him just fine. He wasn’t much in the mood for gentleness anyway.

It’s easy enough for Hawke to press the advantage of his height, tipping up Bran’s chin and curling around him—tempting to just pin him by the hips, but they do have a party to be getting back to soon. He settles for kissing Bran until he hears a low, frustrated sound, the sort of thing that has to be won from a man like that.

“Good,” he says, his voice rough, and could swear he sees Bran shiver before Hawke clears his throat and smiles broadly. “I think you’re getting the hang of it.”

“Is that so? How gracious of you.”

Bran is still glaring at him, all wound up and furious, just begging to be pushed until he snaps, but going to his knees in this little alcove is not part of the plan, so Hawke wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and takes Bran’s arm again, leads him back to the party.

Their absence, he sees from the glances cast their way, has been noted, but not by so many people as to make it gauche. A secret of the party to be shared in friendly gossip, rather than a tasteless disturbance in the midst of it.

Hawke is really quite something.

“There,” he says to Bran. “You see?”

“See what?”

“They’re already looking at you differently. You’re more of a person to them now, not just an office and a lot of,” Hawke waves a hand in the direction of Bran’s face, “the frowning.”

“That’s ridiculous. These are people at a party, nothing more.”

“You mean you can’t see it?” Hawke tilts his head, bewildered. No wonder the man hates his job, if everyone coming through the door is nothing but a cipher making demands. He shrugs it off as a thought not worth having, reaches up to flatten Bran’s slightly mussed hair. “Good thing you have me, then. I’m not much of a soldier, or a nobleman for that matter—”

“You don’t say.”

“—but I do know people. Oh, look, the viscount.”

Bran is, naturally, too good to roll his eyes. Instead he has to settle for giving Hawke a deeply disgusted look. “If you think I’m going to fall for such a childish trick—”

“Seneschal,” says the viscount, and Bran somehow turns even paler than usual.

“Your Grace,” he says smoothly, turning on his heel. “What an unexpected surprise.”

“I’m not entirely sure what’s going on,” Dumar’s pale bright eyes flick to Hawke, not quite suspicious but certainly assessing; it’s possible he doesn’t hear Bran mutter _that makes two of us_. “But you’ve done excellent work in creating goodwill towards our office tonight.”

“I… have?”

“No less than five formal complaints retracted. One of them said something very odd about the early bloom of love and its difficult stages, or — something, I really couldn’t say.” Again, he looks at Hawke, this time more pointedly. “Is this…”

Bran’s hand clamps down on his arm, raw panic and a clear warning combined. For once, Hawke decides to hold his tongue, and let Bran say, “If it please Your Grace, I’d prefer to keep my personal life a private matter, as much as is possible.”

“Of course.” Yet another glance at Hawke, whose winning smile has no visible effect. Maker, but spending so much time in the Keep seems to make these people dour.

Once Dumar has moved along, Hawke slips his arm back around Bran’s waist, ducks his head til his beard can rub obnoxiously against the side of Bran’s face. “I think that went well.”

“I want you to know I despise you,” says Bran, turning his head just enough to glare at Hawke, but he doesn’t try to put any distance between them, and it puts a stupid thrill in Hawke’s stomach.

“Darling Bran. I picked this lock for you,” (he gestures to the door behind them, easy enough to open while the viscount and seneschal frowned at each other) “but I’m afraid it’s mostly empty storage. Coats and things.”

Somehow, it seems Bran still wasn’t expecting this. He’s startled enough to turn his head towards the door in question, and their lips brush almost entirely by accident. Hawke tries to be a polite sort of nuisance and move away, but Bran grabs him by the neck and actually _kisses_ him, hard, before making an appealingly frustrated snarling noise.

“ _Ugh_. Get in.”

“What—”

“ _Get. In_ ,” he hisses, but doesn’t wait for Hawke to listen, just shoves him bodily through the open door and shuts it behind them. There’s a soft click, like the lock being set again, but Hawke can’t see; it’s entirely too dark. Bran’s hands land on his back, pushing him stumbling forward until Hawke’s wisely outstretched forearms hit the wall.

Bran’s hands, fumbling slightly in the darkness, make their way to Hawke’s belt. He’s pressed up against Hawke’s back, unlacing his trousers and shoving them down around his knees. His blunt nails scrape a little over the skin, and all Hawke can think is _thank the Maker, finally_ , he’s already half-hard and he wants this seething public servant to fuck him until he can barely breathe.

“Has my charm at last won you over?” he asks, steady even with Bran’s fingers brushing inside his thighs, spreading him open.

“Your _charm_ , as you put it, is the reason you should be silent.” There’s a rustle of something pulled from one of those pockets in odd places, the startling coolness of oil smeared around and inside him by the blunt pressure of Bran’s thumb.

“Oh!” he says approvingly. “I see someone came prepared.”

“I’m _prepared_ ,” Bran hisses, pushing in with two fingers quickly enough to make Hawke choke down a groan, “on the off-chance of meeting someone whose company I actually _enjoy_.”

“You’re saying you don’t enjoy me?” He means to goad him into keeping this breakneck pace, the roughness that steals Hawke’s breath away, but Bran withdraws only to press back in more slowly, slick again with oil, easing away the ache as he’s stretched and filled, which is — pleasant in its own way.

“That is _exactly_ what I’m saying.”

Hawke tries to spread his legs, in the spirit of helpfulness, but the trousers pushed down around his thighs hold him still as if he were tied, unable to do much more than squirm around Bran’s fingers. Disappointing, on the one hand, because he is an excellent fuckand his skills are being wasted, but, well. He can’t say being pushed around doesn’t hold an appeal in itself. When told to behave, Hawke has always been the type to say _make me_ , and it’s more an invitation than anyone ever seems to realize.

“You are insufferable,” Bran grumbles, fingering him open just impatiently enough to make Hawke’s breath hitch in his throat. “Obnoxious, ill-mannered, thieving little—”

“Is it extra, for the flattery?”

Bran presses a hand (the clean one, of course, with a man so meticulous) over Hawke’s mouth, which is wise because Hawke is… not quiet. Never has been, really, and it feels like it’s been forever since he’s had this. They haven’t even started and he’s already more than willing to beg for it, but now he has to settle for wriggling back onto Bran’s fingers, trying to hum in a key that sounds particularly pleading.

He mutters garbled encouragement into Bran’s palm when he’s finally rewarded, the blunt head of Bran’s cock pressing slowly inside where he’s wet and worked open and there’s really no harm in showing appreciation, is there—

“Hush,” Bran growls at him.

And honestly, he might’ve done, but the words are punctuated by a sharp shove of Bran’s hips, inching the slightest bit deeper and Hawke is so full, he can’t help moaning, half-pleasure and half-frustration. If Bran would just _move_ already and fuck him properly—

A hard slap lands on his ass, then another, and Hawke shudders, clenched around his cock, too suddenly overwhelmed to make a sound. “I said _hush_.”

His hand lingers for a moment, then, as if unsure about what he’s done, brushing the flushed-hot skin with his fingertips. Hawke takes it upon himself to arch into the touch as much as he can, until Bran mutters, “Why am I surprised,” and strikes him again, like a reward.

And suddenly this isn’t just fun, it’s _good_ , so good Hawke can barely breathe.

Bran still doesn’t rush, despite how tightly he’s holding Hawke, the tight clamp of his hand over Hawke’s mouth. He fucks in and out of Hawke a few times, slow and careful, before working up to a rhythm, hard enough to feel punishing, to make Hawke’s toes curl in his boots.

“ _There_ ,” he mutters against Hawke’s neck, and it feels like praise. Bran’s fingers wrap around his cock, warm and still a bit slick, and Hawke bucks helplessly into the feeling and is quiet, he’ll be so quiet if Bran keeps touching him. Who’s even making those throaty little whimpering sounds? Not Hawke, that’s for sure. The smacking of Bran’s hips against his ass is still the loudest thing in this closet, anyway.

And it’s— forceful, still, fucking perfect. He doesn’t hold anything back, and it occurs to Hawke that he might have been so careful earlier just for this reason, so he could fuck Hawke like this and not worry about hurting him. As it is, he’ll certainly have a few bruises in the morning.

“Mmgrflsmr,” he informs Bran happily, or rather mumbles against his palm.

Predictably, he gets an aggravated growl in response, but Bran stops and takes his hand away, which is really quite polite of him, if not at all what Hawke actually wants. “What?!”

“I’m going to feel this tomorrow.”

“Good,” Bran snaps, uneven and breathless, “Think of me — when you — _shut up_.”

Hawke tries to say that he’d rather think about it while getting himself off, which he is absolutely going to do, but Bran’s hand clamps over his mouth again before he can get the words out. There’s something about being muffled like this that’s— well, he’s never tried it before, but with Bran at least—it’s working for him. It really, really is.

He shudders against the weight of Bran slumped against his back, swearing against Hawke’s shoulders, fingers still dragging clumsily over his cock—until Hawke comes, noisily enough that he’s surprised (fine, a little disappointed) Bran doesn’t slap him again. Of course, that might be because Hawke forgets how to stand and Bran can’t hold him upright; they both lose their balance and fall to the floor in stages, Hawke on his hands and knees and Bran still inside him, draped over his back now, fisting a hand in Hawke’s hair to keep him right where he wants him.

There’s more leverage, from this angle, and Bran doesn’t hesitate to use it, fucking Hawke through the aftershocks until he feels pliant and flushed-hot and perfect, moving obediently wherever Bran wants him. Hawke imagines being kept like this for hours, used until he’s utterly exhausted, and can’t help wishing they had a bit more time on their hands.

He barely bothers to stir himself from a thoroughly satisfied puddle until Bran has come inside him, stilled, and almost immediately begun some creative, whispered blaspheming.

Not much of a cuddler, then.

“Something wrong, muffin?” asks Hawke, struggling not to yawn.

“We have to go out there.”

“Very likely.”

A bit of sputtering; there really is a distinctive feeling that comes from someone glaring at your back. Bran also pulls out of him, which is a shame. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“Well.” Hawke lurches upright only to prop himself against a wall, knees still shaky, tugs his pants up over his spent cock, wincing. “I could always draw you a diagram, if you’ve forgotten.”

“You— the people out there—”

“Ah yes. Them.” His whole body feels overheated and sticky; these fancy clothes are undoubtedly ruined. Excellent. “Best guess, they think we’re in the middle of a rough patch, recently reconciled, and got a little too carried away with our affections. We wouldn’t be the only ones. Did you notice that couple on the balcony earlier, because _that_ —”

“I’ll have to explain to these people why my _paramour_ has disappeared. They’ll want an explanation. And I, unlike some people, am not a born liar.”

“Mother always said I should find a man who appreciates my skills.”

“Which are, what, being absolutely insufferable and getting screwed in broom closets?”

“Among others,” Hawke agrees cheerfully. “Besides, what if you kept me?”

Bran stops in the middle of wiping his hands on a handkerchief, just to stare. It's flattering, really. “I beg your pardon.”

“Oh, come on. Think about it. We go to parties, I charm people, you have those little aneurysms and take it out on me later. Everybody wins.”

“Do they.”

“Of course. Think how much we could improve. I can take a lot more than that,” Hawke shrugs, loose and matter-of-fact, tilts his head at Bran. “And I think you’d like to give it to me.”

“It… could be the most practical solution.”

Easier than he’d expected, for once. It’s getting to be rather jarring, when things go well. “Right,” says Hawke after a moment. “I suppose I’ll be going, then. Should you head out first, or—?”

“No.” Bran is still scowling, which provides a nice element of consistency to all this. “After everything you— no. It would look strange. You’re coming home with me.”

“Am I?”

“Wipe that stupid grin off your face.”

“Yes, dear.”

“And be _silent_ ,” Bran hisses, vengefully straightening Hawke’s shirt for him.

“Mm.” In the interest of helpfulness and reciprocity, he pats fondly at Bran’s crotch. “I like to think we don’t really need words to know each other’s hearts.”

A traitorous snort of laughter escapes Bran before he can hide his face. “I’ll regret this, won’t I.”

“Almost certainly,” says Hawke with a solemn nod, holding out his arm. “Shall we?”

“Yes,” Bran sighs. “I suppose we shall.”


End file.
